


Nice and Nice

by IneffableDoll



Series: The Ineffable Knitting Club 'Verse [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Complete, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Holding Hands, Humor, Ineffable Spouses, Kissing, Other, POV Alternating, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, drawing in first chapter btw, it’s so soft I might simply scream, so come scream with me into the peppermint-scented void!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Ineffable Christmas fluff. 100% pointless softness. Each chapter is a new way to die via overexposure to love.~Chapter 1: Christmas decorations, Christmas lights suck, matching holiday sweaters, and domestically ineffable cuteness.Chapter 2: Aziraphale is sus, there’s too much garland, angel tree toppers kind of, and romantic tree parasites.Chapter 3: Christmas shopping, an attempt is made, Crowley says “this is so cliché” because that’s what we’re all thinking, and biscuit dismemberment.Chapter 4: Socks, bickering, mead, stars, and love. Also, holding hands.Chapter 5: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day arrive at the South Downs cottage. Crowley gets caught in the cold, domestic fuzziness occurs, and the author manages to be even more self-indulgent than before.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Ineffable Knitting Club 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029504
Comments: 42
Kudos: 43
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. godforsaken christmas lights

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as [I’ll Love You Like This Ring I Hold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735854) There are a few references you won’t get if you haven’t read it (it’s only 1K so easy to catch up if you haven’t).  
> The artwork featured in this chapter is by [@Kittykazoo_Art on Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/kittykazoo_art/) – AKA, me! I couldn’t decide if I wanted to turn the initial idea into a drawing or a fic…and elected to do both! Did the drawing first, which is why the dialogue doesn’t quite match.  
> I am woefully American, so apologies if I screw up any British Christmas traditions in writing this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas decorations, Christmas lights suck, matching holiday sweaters, and domestically ineffable cuteness.

For the first time in the five years that had elapsed since Armageddon’t, Crowley briefly regretted their lack of employment by Hell. They were fairly sure they would have gotten not just a commendation, but a Satan blessed ceremony if they’d taken credit for these _godforsaken Christmas lights._

They were all brand new. Crowley’d just gone and bought them, so it was literally impossible that they would be tangled, and yet! And yet! Here they were, a lump of knotted black cords and spiky bulbs caught every which way. Worse, none of them reacted at all to Crowley’s usual regiment when it came to Things Not Working – growling and shouting threats. They just continued to twinkle at the demon menacingly. Brats.

Crowley wouldn’t have bothered with this at all, normally. They certainly never had before. But this was a year of firsts, and they paused to consider why the heaven they were out here in the cold of mid-December, stringing multicolored twinkly lights across the porch of this stupidly cute cottage.

The reason was that they owned the cottage. And lived in it. With Aziraphale. Who owned it with them. And lived in it with them.

Shockingly, the idea to move in together had been Aziraphale’s, not Crowley’s. Crowley had daydreamed (and nightdreamed) about it, yeah, but they always sorta figured that’d be way down the road. It took a year after Armageddon to hold hands, after all. Another year before the first kiss. Another before they properly, well, _cuddled_ together on the sofa, though Crowley preferred to call it _sitting close to each other._

Then, a few months earlier, Aziraphale had been running their hand through Crowley’s hair when they suddenly said, “I don’t think your flat is large enough for all my books.”

Crowley opened one eye from their perch in the angel’s lap, bewildered. “Erm. Probably not. Are you…needing more space? We could just make the shop bigger.”

“No, I just don’t think there are enough windows here for your plants,” they replied serenely. “Perhaps we could miracle up some sort of pathway between the two spaces?”

Crowley sat up slowly, eyes wide. “You – wait, you want my plants here? You want me to…what, _move in?”_

“Well, that clearly wouldn’t work, would it? Neither of our spaces are quite suitable…”

“Erm. Uh.”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale pursed their lips. “Do you suppose we should create a third location?”

“A – a what now?”

“A third location. Where we could keep both of our things.”

Crowley grinned, then, unable to contain themself anymore. “You’re ridiculous. You’re completely, ridiculously ridiculous.”

They bought a cottage a week later.

And now, it was their first year living there. Crowley had decided to let go of the flat – it had no sentimental value to them, and all the plants and their vast art collection were easily moved to the cottage in the South Downs. Aziraphale kept the bookshop, though, and the two stayed there for London visits. Some books here, some books there. So far, the split collection hadn’t caused any problems, as Aziraphale was long since used to assuming the book they wanted was nearby, and Crowley was not about to remind them that, actually, their Tolkien collection was in Soho last they checked.

They’d…accidentally sorta maybe got married sometime in September, during one of their visits to London. It was Crowley’s fault, in the end. Mildred really had never shut up about it, once she heard (a slightly altered version of) the story.

“Oh, I burned my muffins last week,” she commented during one of the knitting group meetings Aziraphale had joined the second they heard this stupidly cute village had a knitting group. “But at least it wasn’t as much of a disaster as Anthony’s proposal.”

Crowley – Anthony, anyway – glared at her from where they’d been helping Edith choose a yarn color for her granddaughter’s socks. “Oi! You promised you’d stop bringing it up if I trimmed your hedges last month!”

“I meant do it regularly,” she quipped with a devilish smirk. “You did it once – and terribly, I might add.”

They snarled and whined, “Aaaaangel, Mildred is bullying me!”

Aziraphale glanced up from the rainbow scarf they were knitting and smiled. “Come now, my love, I saw your job on those hedges and it really was quite subpar.”

“Betrayal! Angel, I am _wounded.”_

After all of that, after a build-up of six thousand years, Crowley was contented to take it slow. They’d always liked things fast, had always wanted more too soon, but it turned out that having no deadline made them more than happy to appreciate every day exactly as it came. A sentiment hardly suited to a demonic entity, sure, but they were involved in Aziraphale’s _knitting club._ Demonic might not even be on the table at this point.

And now they lived in a stupidly cute cottage together.

Crowley tugged on one part of the string of lights yet again, only tightening the confusing knot of wires and bulbs even more. This was the absolute last thing they wanted to be doing right now, but, as always, Aziraphale asked, and Crowley delivered.

Celebrating these kitschy holidays was always sorta hit and miss for them. As beings older than the Earth itself, holidays in general were difficult to work around. They used to all be festivals revering certain gods, or certain royals and heroes, or certain events. Aziraphale, in those first few thousand years, had always been very particular about which ones they celebrated, being sure to take the moral, Heavenly position. Crowley tried to do the opposite of that.

As time went on, as it does, there came a point at which there were simply too many holidays across too many calendars across too many cultures to ever keep track of what they were all for. It was when they met up in Rome during Saturnalia – Saturn’s birthday, apparently, all about role-reversal – that they both agreed that life would be much easier if they just celebrated whatever the humans around them were doing so long as there was alcohol or food involved.

The twenty-first century and the general melding of cultures on a global scale made that more complicated, so they took to switching off holidays each year, doing whichever they felt like. Not always together, but the past sixteen years (ever since Adam popped up), they always coordinated. They’d done Channukah the past three years, Kwanzaa for two before that, and a mix of Boxing Day and the Solstice in the decade before.

However, since moving into the cottage, and as the end-of-year holidays abounded, Aziraphale started doing their little pouting thing because all the cottages down the lane were putting up Christmas lights. Strings of blue icicle thingies, multicolored monstrosities, all-white nets over hedges, glowing candy canes along the pavement, and even huge, ugly blow-ups of soulless snowmen and extremely happy Santas.

Aziraphale _loved it._

So, Christmas it was.

Aziraphale insisted they do everything properly. It’d been at least half a century since either of them had done this, but the Christian culture of Britain wasn’t exactly subtle, so it’s not like they had a lot of research to do. However, since it all started with Christmas lights, Aziraphale staunchly insisted that there was no point at all if they didn’t put lights up on the house first. Crowley had been fully prepared to snap some on, but Aziraphale thought that wouldn’t “be sufficiently true to the experience of the season.”

The experience of the season, as it turned out, involved a lot more cursing than Crowley’d expected.

Crowley was just about to curse the entire string of bulbs to the depths of a volcano when the door squeaked open (because Crowley thought cottage doors were supposed to squeak) and Aziraphale appeared, looking absurdly soft and squishable in a chunky red sweater. The word _NICE_ was emblazoned across the chest. A perfect contrast to the abysmal thing Aziraphale had forced on them that morning, a green sweater they consented to only because it had _NAUGHTY_ across it, instead.

So cliché. Crowley couldn’t stand it. Why did they do this again?

Aziraphale beamed at them. “I finished with the biscuits. How’re the lights coming, darling?”

Ah, right. That was why.

“I’m going to kill something small if I am forced to do this any longer,” they growled.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, we can’t have that. Let me help.” They took the string of lights from Crowley’s frozen fingers and they instantly unwound. With another bright smile, they chirped, “Shall we, then?”

“What happened to not doing miracles for the lights, angel?”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked at them sheepishly through their eyelashes. “When one hears their spouse curse Christmas lights in so many…creative…ways, one tends to reconsider.”

“You heard that?”

“Of course, I did, you old fool.”

“Hey–“

“Oh, look, it seems the others have become untangled, too. Hold this end for me, dear?”

With Aziraphale’s help, it was a matter of only an hour to get the lights wound around all the posts, draped about in whatever specific way Aziraphale wanted, and everything plugged in. Crowley steadfastly refused to go up on the roof, and Aziraphale wasn’t about to either, so they agreed to miracle the lights on at some point in the night and hope the neighbors wouldn’t notice.

Crowley drew the line at inflatables and absolutely refused to have any in their yard, so, naturally, there was a penguin in a sweater and a Santa Snoopy huffing and puffing on either side of the footpath up to the front steps.

At least they were agreed on excluding a Nativity Scene.

“Next year,” Crowley said as they stood out in the street in the waning light, looking at their dolled-up, stupidly cute cottage, “we do Halloween, and we do it my way.”

Aziraphale lit up like the lights. “Oh, that sounds delightful! We can hand out sweets to the little children! And we could do a matching _couples costume!_ I’ve heard those are ever so popular nowadays.”

Crowley just shook their head and smiled. “Aren’t we already in a couples costume? Naughty and Nice?”

Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley’s sweater. “Erm.”

Crowley looked at well. Their sweater read _NICE_ in red lettering. “Angel. Didn’t it say naughty before?” they said, deadpan.

Aziraphale grinned a little too innocently. “I rather think it suits you, my dear.”

“Oh, shut up! You did this, didn’t you?” they growled, turning on their spouse with a scowl.

“Come, now, I’m not about to fool with your sartorial choices–“

“That’s literally what you do all the time–“

“I didn’t say anything about those gold hoop earrings you’re wearing.”

“I’m not _nice,_ no matter how many times you say–“

Aziraphale interrupted them with a kiss to the corner of their mouth. “I love you.”

Crowley made a face, as though their heart wasn’t doing the equivalent of pumping its fist victoriously like it did every time Aziraphale kissed them. “You can’t just do that every time we argue, angel!”

“This isn’t arguing. It’s discussing.”

“Bickering,” Crowley countered.

“Conversing.”

“Disagreeing.”

“Talking.”

“Uh. Fighting.”

“Chatting.”

“Er. Umm…talking rudely?”

“I don’t think that counts. Speaking, communicating, pattering, jabbering, blathering, confabulating. I could go on.”

Crowley kissed them back, hard and passionate and definitely inappropriate for the middle of the road (no one was around, and it was dark, so whatever), until both were gasping for breath when they drew back. “Should never…challenge a bibliophile…to anything word-related,” the demon huffed, cheeks bright red – and not from the cold.

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said, though their breathlessness made it sound less haughty than it might’ve normally. “Now, your fingers on my face are completely frozen, so we should probably move indoors?”

“Yeah, I can’t even feel them.”

“Oh, good Lord! Give them here…” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands and began rubbing warmth back into them as they walked back to their house, glowing and shimmering with strings of light. It looked warm, and cozy, and safe. Aziraphale released Crowley to hold the door open for them, and they swaggered in, shucking off their boots and immediately releasing a sigh of relief at the heat inside their house.

“Poor serpent,” Aziraphale said gently. “I’ll put on some tea and you’ll be warmed up in no time.”

It wasn’t until after the two were _sitting close to each other_ on the sofa that Crowley suddenly looked at Aziraphale, eyes wide. “Bullocks,” they said. “I didn’t say it back. Love you, too, by the way. Obviously.”

Aziraphale pecked them on the nose. “You’re so nice to me.”

Crowley was too warm and drowsy to give more than a half-hearted groan. They hadn’t fixed the sweater and had the feeling Aziraphale would mess with it again when they did. “Blah blah, tell the whole world,” they groused sleepily, leaning heavily into the angel’s side.

Aziraphale’s smile was so loud, Crowley could hear it with their eyes closed. “I just told _my_ world, already,” they whispered.

“Oh, Someone, smite me down.”

“So dramatic–“

“You signed up for this. You don’t get to complain.”

“Neither do you, then.”

Crowley couldn’t argue with that and responded with a full body sprawl across Aziraphale’s lap, the angel barely pulling their book out of the way in time.

“Oh, you beast! You might’ve creased a page! This is a first edition Milton, I’ll have you know–“

Crowley sniggered and settled in. Aziraphale continued their tirade even as they pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and drew it over Crowley’s body. Crowley drifted off to the sound of their love’s voice, a soothing cadence and a hand through their hair, too peaceful and comfortable to remember that they’d ever been cold at all.

All night, their cottage glowed with love; utter, perfect contentment; and the continued promise of safety.

And Christmas lights. Lots of those, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since I joined this fandom, I’ve been seeing peoples’ collections of December prompts they wrote this time last year (which I missed out on cuz I joined in February). I don’t want to do daily prompts or anything, but I am inspired to do some little holiday stories along that vein because I LOVE CHRISTMAS SO MUCH AHHH. I am planning two or three more chapters that will come out at some point in this month, all pointless Christmas/winter fluff leading us up to the holiday itself, plus probably New Years, of these Ineffable Spouses. Feel free to leave ideas/prompts in the comments if you like. I have a few ideas, though none of them are written yet, so we shall see what the Muse has in store for me.  
> (Please remember to use the right pronouns if you comment! We support nonbinary identities and genderfluidity in this household!)


	2. stupidly cute cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is sus, there’s too much garland, angel tree toppers kind of, and romantic tree parasites.

Aziraphale was definitely up to something. There was absolutely nothing trustworthy in those eyes.

“My dear, I simply think you might have a lovely time walking the grounds and not coming back for twenty to thirty minutes,” the angel said serenely, hands folded behind their back. “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”

“First off, I don’t fuss; I’m a demon. I never _fuss,”_ Crowley replied, leering closer until their faces were inches apart. Crowley made an unimpressed expression. “I’m simply wondering how the angel who lied to God and got away with it is actually so terrible at lying.”

“Well, goodness, what an insinuation–“

“Can you deny it?”

“Why, of – of course I can! Not that an angel would ever need to lie, obviously. You fiend. Now get out and let me put up the…ah…”

“Oh, so you _are_ up to something, hmm?”

“Well, I…I…” Aziraphale made an annoyed sound, eyebrows drawn together. “I’m trying to – that is…”

“Hey, hey.” Crowley could feel the anxiety coming off their angel. They pressed their foreheads together for a moment. “Deep breath. I’ll go for a walk and you can show me your surprise when I’m back, okay, angel?”

Aziraphale beamed at them gratefully. “Thank you, darling.”

“Ngh. Be back soon.”

Aziraphale insisted on helping to wrap Crowley up in all their layers – which included no fewer than three scarves and the thickest, fluffiest red gloves the world had ever known – before ushering them to the door and all but kicking them out. For a moment, Crowley simply breathed in the cold air, watching the puffs of steam swirl from their mouth into the atmosphere, before gathering themself and ambling down the little stone path from the porch steps of the stupidly cute cottage.

The neighborhood was a nice one, if neighborhood was the right word. None of the houses were close together, all coming off the same street, but with enough distance that their cottage felt secluded and private. It was a welcome change from the busy, invasive world of the city. Crowley had been drawn to cities since humans invented them, but sometimes they were too much. They felt overstimulated, overwhelmed, by the noise and people and going, going, going. The move to the South Downs had calmed a lot of the itching of their bones, soothing it over like the waves that lapped at the beach a short walk from their stupidly cute cottage.

Crowley considered wandering that way but ended up down the lane. It was the middle of the day, yet no one was about – no doubt because anyone with sense wouldn’t be walking in this freezing weather. They were insane to be out there, themself. Something about this season was leaving them out in the cold more often than they liked.

It wasn’t exactly new, this thing where Aziraphale needed them to leave sometimes. It had always been a thing. Before, though, Crowley had had another place they could go. Their flat, or whatever residence they’d taken up at the time. Besides, they couldn’t feasibly spend every moment together; that would be unreasonable. Aziraphale needed their time. Crowley vaguely wondered how long it would take for Aziraphale to get tired of them for real–

They shook their head violently. That’s not what this was. Aziraphale was up to something, but Crowley knew them well enough to know it was probably something _for_ them. They hadn’t been kicked out because Aziraphale needed space. They’d been over this. Aziraphale had gotten very stern lately about any and all self-deprecating talk by smothering Crowley in compliments until the demon was a flustered, boiling mess and Aziraphale had to hold them until they calmed down. It wasn’t an easy thing, to become accustomed to being _wanted._

Crowley’s mobile suddenly began ringing, and they answered the call in an instant. It had only been fifteen minutes since they’d left.

_“Dear?”_

“Yeah, angel?”

_“I-I do think I have possibly been a bit…presumptive.”_

“Um. About…what?”

_“Nothing, everything is tip-top, but, er, you can come back now and I…I think I have some explaining to do?"_

“Aziraphale? What’s going on?”

Unexpectedly, a giggle came from the other end, swiftly combing out the threads of Crowley’s sudden anxiety. “ _Oh, just come on home, and I’ll show you. I’ll have tea waiting to warm you up.”_

For one, slow moment, Crowley couldn’t think. _Home. Home._ That...that was what it was, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just a stupidly cute cottage they lived in. It was a proper _home_ , now, huh? What a strange, human thought to have, that Crowley had never really had one. Had Heaven been home? They couldn’t be sure. Hell sure wasn’t. It didn’t matter.

Crowley blinked a few times rapidly and coughed. “Erm, yeah, be there in a few.” They hung up quickly, eyes stinging from the – from the cold. They wiped their face quickly with a scarf to catch the bits of, uh, dew, or – a couple little raindrops. Rain, yes, nevermind the clear, blue sky.

Home. That was where people belonged, wasn’t it? The place they always longed to be, where their _families_ were? Home for the holidays and all that jazz?

Bless these eyeballs to high Heaven. Crowley wasn’t crying, okay? They weren’t. That would be stupid, alright? That would be – be undemonic, and dumb, and vulnerable, and…and…

Crowley spun on their heel and walked quickly home, cheeks and nose red…from the wind.

The door flung open before they’d even reached the porch. “Hello, love, welcome back! I’ve, er, sort of made a little bit of a mess of things, but, uh…”

Crowley smiled reassuringly. “What have you done now, you silly angel?”

Aziraphale huffed and wordlessly held the door open. Crowley was entirely unprepared for the sight as they stepped upon the threshold.

If Christmas was a person, if Christmas as a holiday could be embodied in an individual, that individual had done the equivalent of spit on every surface, stamp their boots across the floor, and possibly smoke a cigar also made of Christmas in every room. There were evergreen firs strung up, garlands draped over chairs, tinsel dropped in piles on the floor. Candy canes hanging off doorknobs. Nutcrackers chattered on every open surface, stuffed atop bookshelves and next to plants. Red bows, no fewer than six wreaths, Father Christmas figures, horrible 50s angel figures scattered all over the blessed place. The smell of cinnamon and cloves.

Oh, and the tree.

It was, in every way, the perfect Christmas tree. Straight out of a child’s dream, between the sugar fairies or whatever. Fluffy, dark green, fat with pine needles and boughs. Gleaming with faux candles, strips of _more bloody garland_ , and plenty of space for ornaments. Crowley suspected those boxes next to it were full of them.

It was ridiculous. It was horrible. It was every holiday Hallmark movie Crowley had most certainly never watched, and there was Aziraphale, standing beside them, hands fluttering nervously over their sleeves and waistcoat buttons, anxious and excited and – and so adorable.

“You...you…” Crowley attempted.

“I wanted to surprise you with a decorated home,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand to indicate the room, as though Crowley needed any help spotting the Everything of it. “I know you’re indulging me, lately. I heard you with the lights the other day, and you sounded so upset, and I didn’t want to make you, well, do anything you didn’t want to, or make you feel obligated, so I…”

“So you had ol’ Saint Nick throw up in here?” Crowley replied, taking up one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of their gloved ones. Rolling their eyes, they continued, “Angel, I don’t mind this stuff, really. Never really cared for it before, but I never did it with you. With you, I don’t – it’s fine. Nice, whatever. You didn’t need to decorate by yourself, I would happily do it with you. You know that.”

Aziraphale looked at them a little sheepishly. “Ah, yes, well. That’s the thing. It only took me a matter of minutes to realize I wasn’t having any fun at all, because…you weren’t doing it with me.”

How had Crowley lived six thousand years without this affection? How were they supposed to cope with it now? Five years wasn’t enough time to get used to it. Twenty wouldn’t, a thousand. “Hrrgnk.”

“Indeed, love. I realized I was, well, not thinking quite right when I called. I just…I don’t want to be too much.”

Crowley groaned. “Angel, that’s _my_ line. You can’t take it. I’m the one who’s too much, who asks for too much and goes too fast and–“

“You hush, now,” Aziraphale demanded with all the fierceness of an angel who gave their sword away – that is to say, gently, and carefully. “You haven’t been too much in ages, but I-I don’t know. I simply adore celebrating these human things, and I want to share them with you, but sometimes it’s so hard to tell where the line is.”

“Then ask me!” Crowley broke in, a small smile playing across their lips. “Just ask me, angel!”

“Ah.” Aziraphale blinked at the revelation, head titled slightly. “Yes, that rather – that makes sense. But you won’t lie to me, will you? Won’t do these things just because I ask them?”

 _Ask and ye shall receive,_ Crowley’s brain supplied unhelpfully. “’M a demon. I’m supposed to lie.” They gave a put-upon sigh. “But no, I won’t. I want to try all your sappy Christmas crap, okay?”

Aziraphale grinned. “Oh, you’re just such a sweet–“

Crowley threw tinsel at them. “Let’s just decorate, will you?”

Some hours later, the tea had gone cold and hot cocoa was made in lieu of warming it up. The house had taken on some form of order again, with decorations placed in places that actually made a modicum of sense (though Crowley still wasn’t sold on the popcorn strings dangling on the curtain rods). The tree was covered in ornaments, apparently ones that Aziraphale had collected around the time of the dinosaurs (ha!) and had stashed away for the next time they gave Christmas a go. They’d also gone out and bought more recently. Crowley acted appalled at the ornament of a black snake in a Santa hat, but placed it at eye-level on the front of the tree to ensure it couldn’t be missed.

“What’ll we put on the top?” Crowley asked, folding their arms to peer up at the naked topmost branch. “Not another one of those horrifically ugly angels, right? Someone forbid.”

Aziraphale, unexpectedly, flushed red. “Er, well. Allow me to…” They trailed off before scurrying off to a closet in the hallway toward their bedroom. They returned and quickly held out what they had retrieved.

It wasn’t an angel tree topper. Not quite. It had the flowing robe, curled hair, serene expression and general over-fluffiness of angel tree toppers.

The wings were black.

“Angel. What is this.”

“Ah, you see…” Aziraphale smiled softly. “It didn’t seem fair to have angels all around, and no demons to speak of.”

“Angel–“

“So, I thought, maybe I could just…” They mimed a snap. “They don’t really come like that, you know – I did look, but the closest is brown wings, but I…”

“You made me into a tree topper,” Crowley said, half aghast, half…something else.

“It’s not exactly you–“

“Red curls? Black robe? Black _wings,_ Aziraphale?”

“I wanted it to be something special,” Aziraphale insisted stubbornly. “I wanted you to be on top, my love.”

Crowley opened their mouth and shut it again. They didn’t even do that kind of thing, but surely the angel knew what it _sounded like._ “I am _not_ commenting on that.”

“What?”

Crowley sighed. “Angel, we’re not putting – putting _me_ on top of the tree. That’s weird! Just put a star or something.”

Aziraphale pouted.

“Don’t do the lip thing. Look, I appreciate the thought, okay? But I don’t want to stick myself up there, all alone, that’s just pretentious is what it is–“

Aziraphale gently took the topper from Crowley’s hands. “Then maybe it just needs a little change is all.” With a light touch, white bled from the black, blonde from the red, and suddenly, the tree topper split into two figures. It was still one piece, robes spilling over together, but now an angel and demon stood side-by-side, hands intwined, wings proudly monochrome.

Crowley related very much to the Witch of the West and considered screeching and melting into a puddle. They might possibly be on fire. It was all very counter-intuitive.

“Will that, do?” Aziraphale asked, all innocently batting eyelashes. Bastard. Cute, horrible, wonderful bastard.

“Still pretentious,” Crowley tried to reply. It came out as, “Sppth.”

Aziraphale put the topper up. Crowley helped. They hated everything about it. Obviously. Of course. It was exceedingly stupid. They were just tolerating it for the angel’s sake. If Crowley found themself blinking rapidly once more when they stepped back to look at the finished tree, well. The lights were rather bright, after all.

“Our home is so cozy this way,” Aziraphale said, cradling their mug of cocoa. “Do you think we got it all? Tree, lights, garlands, nutcrackers? I’m sure there’s plenty more to add, but we should save some to try next year, don’t you think?”

Crowley nodded vaguely as a smirk overtook their face. “I know one thing we’re missing.”

“Oh?”

They snapped.

“…Crowley. I see what you’re doing, but is _this much mistletoe_ really necessary?”

There were at least twenty bundles in that room alone, bits of evergreen and small bunches of white berries, dangling from the ceiling in a haphazard pattern. “Maybe I just want an excuse to kiss you, no matter where we are,” Crowley hissed softly, drawing their arms around Aziraphale’s waist.

“Well–“

“Come now, angel. Get in the holiday spirit. Wouldn’t want to miss out on a Christmas tradition, would you?”

Aziraphale rolled their eyes, though their cheeks were a pleasant pink, as they set their mug aside. “You don’t need to tempt me into kissing my own spouse, thank you kindly.”

“Then get on with i–“

Crowley truly didn’t see why mistletoe had to be a Christmas-only thing. Maybe they should just keep it up all the year ‘round. They’d never wilt; Crowley’s care would ensure that. Then again, maybe the other plants would think the mistletoe was getting special treatment by being on the ceiling. Could disrupt their whole order of things.

Aziraphale tugged them closer and started peppering the demon’s face with light kisses, and Crowley decided they’d think on that later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I somehow accidentally got feelings in the Feelings Fic. These two are so grossly in love.  
> Also, I’ve decided I’m making this a weekly thing (posting Fridays) with a total of six chapters, ending with New Years. It’s just plotless fluff and I’m not gonna stress about it; let’s see what happens!


	3. this is so cliché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas shopping, an attempt is made, Crowley says “this is so cliché” because that’s what we’re all thinking, and biscuit dismemberment.

Aziraphale adjusted their long, cream-toned scarf as a chilly breeze tugged it loose from their neck. Frost was still clinging to the grass blades along the path as they made their way down the lane toward town. The sky was clear and bright, air crisp and breath falling in white puffs. Their fluffy coat, mittens, and earmuffs kept the cold out, and they grinned to themself as they ambled along, perfectly content.

The only thing that could have possibly improved the morning was if a certain serpent was joining them.

Unfortunately, as Aziraphale was, in part, shopping for said serpent, that made it rather impossible to then shop together. Besides, they also had a number of other stops to make, acquiring gifts for the neighbors they’d befriended, and Aziraphale didn’t doubt Crowley would’ve spent the entire trip crabbing. Going on about the consumerist propaganda of the holiday and their brilliant work with capitalism, despite Aziraphale knowing, for a fact, that they had nothing to do with it.

Plus, they’d said something about “making sure this blessed mistletoe understands the ground rules around here,” and Aziraphale was quite sure they were content to miss this…indoctrination process.

“Oh, good morning, Oliver,” Aziraphale greeted as a shorter, balding man approached along the pavement. He was walking his corgi, looking distracted and stressed. “How do you do this fine day?”

“Ezra,” he replied pleasantly. “I’m fine enough. Finally not raining, and Susie’s loving that.” He smiled a bit as the dog yipped gleefully at the sound of her name.

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale replied with a laugh. “But…are you sure you’re alright, my dear?”

Oliver sighed. “I’m alright, really. It’s just…hard, being away from Daniel during the holidays. I always hate when his work takes him overseas.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyebrows wrinkling. “Yes. That separation is very difficult, I’m afraid. Anthony and I were often apart for similar reasons, for long stretches.” They smiled softly. “But I promise, it gets better if you’re patient. I’m sure you’ll be together sooner than you think.” And with a careful blink of Aziraphale’s eyes, they would be.

Oliver seemed calmed. “I’m sure you’re right. Thanks, Ezra.”

“Of course, my dear. Now, I’d best run along. So much holiday hullabaloo to get on with!”

He let out a laugh. “Right. Until later then.”

They parted ways, the corgi barking a goodbye, and Aziraphale continued down the road, smiling to themself. It shouldn’t surprise them, really, to see themself so plainly in humans sometimes. They could remember so, so many years and centuries spent at parties, celebrations, and gatherings. And every single time, they’d wished Crowley was there with them. They’d spent so much time, unable to be together.

Patience. Perhaps it wasn’t so simple. There was work involved in it, but Aziraphale liked to believe that it was worth it, if all that waiting led to something as beautiful as what they and Crowley had now.

The village was upon them, and Aziraphale dragged their mind from wandering old, lonely memories and focused on each step on pavement, on the cold against their cheeks, and set aside the years spent apart. They were together, now, and had been for over five years – not counting the years leading up to…everything.

Aziraphale never wanted to stop savoring it, never wanted it to feel normal.

Unsurprisingly, one of their first stops was at a craft shop for some yarn. The folks of the local knitting club could always use more yarn, and Aziraphale, of course, knew what colors they were wanting, preferred brands, string-count, and fiber. They also picked up more of that wine-toned cotton yarn to knit Crowley socks to match the scarf they’d made last month.

Aziraphale had never been one to do these crafty sort of hobbies, always preferring to enjoy what the humans made rather than making things themself. However, they discovered the joys of creation after finding that cookbook section in the year after the failed end of the world, and these fiber-based activities since moving to Devil’s Dyke, and was completely enamored.

They were curious about crocheting, but Martin’s _intensity_ while doing so was intimidating. Perhaps they’d work their way up. For now, looms and needles were more than plenty to learn the uses of.

Aziraphale continued their shopping throughout the village, stopping to chat with numerous fellow shoppers and shopkeepers, always preferring to buy locally from small businesses. They were always certain to support Black businesses, especially, and those generally run by marginalized groups and minorities. It was an indescribable feeling, to know the impact they had by doing so, and thereby influencing others to do the same. It was more effective than any miracle, though they naturally dispensed many of those, as well. The small businesses in this town would not suffer under the angel’s watchful eye.

Gifts in tow, they marched back home, eager to eat the takeout Thai they picked up, making sure there was plenty of orange chicken for Crowley and panang curry for themself. Rain began to drizzle as they walked, and they picked up the pace. They and their goods wouldn’t get wet, of course (the dear raindrops surely wouldn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale, would they?) but rain was best experienced from the comfort of a cozy sofa.

“Crowley, I’m home!” they called as they closed the door behind them. The storm had only grown stronger by then, and they gratefully breathed in the warmth and coziness of home. The smell of ethereal and demonic energies mixing, a hint of peppermint from the canes on the tree…the smell of burning chocolate.

Erm. That wasn’t quite right.

“Dear?” Aziraphale sent the gifts elsewhere for later wrapping with a snap and hurried to the kitchen, where the scent only got stronger and was muddled with a mix of burnt gingerbread and propane.

“D-Don’t come in here!” Crowley called, a frantic note to their voice, pulling Aziraphale up short just before they barged in. “Everything is perfectly fine and there’s nothing for you to worry about, obviously. I would tell you if there was. So, no need to come in. Nothing to see in here.”

Aziraphale, oscillating between concern and amusement (with an extreme leaning toward the latter), pressed a hand against their growing grin. “Crowley, love, I know what burnt baking smells like.”

A pause, followed by a beleaguered sigh. “Well. Well, how on Earth was I supposed to know the gingerbread would turn black if left in for ten extra minutes? I was busy!”

Unable to stay away, Aziraphale finally turned the corner and entered the kitchen, expression dancing with mirth. The scene before them was even better than they’d been envisioning. Their clean kitchen, an even blend of modern, stainless steel appliances and vintage, 70s-style cupboards was awash with open, half-spilled containers of sugar, baking soda, and a half dozen spice jars. Bowls everywhere. Molasses dripped down the edge of the island into a puddle of sticky egg shells, a few cubes of butter lounged forgotten atop the refrigerator, and everything smelled suspiciously of vanilla extract.

Crowley, meanwhile, in their usual all-black, not even an apron to speak of, was absolutely _coated_ in flour.

“W-What were you trying to make?” Aziraphale asked, trying so very, very hard not to laugh. Crowley had obviously been baking something for them. The gesture was so, incredibly sweet. Oh dear.

Crowley looked at them with wild, yellow eyes, hair sticking up like they’d been tugging at it. Too cute for words. “Tha’s the gingerbread biscuits,” they said, pointing to their smoldering remains beside the stovetop. “The fudge is permanently glued to the bowl in the rubbish bin. The Bundt is…uh…” They blinked, scanning the kitchen. “Was in the middle of that one and I think I stirred too fast? Not sure where it went.”

The sight of Crowley’s genuinely perplexed expression, both so innocent and so disgruntled, was enough to shatter the remnants of Aziraphale’s composure. They doubled over with laughter, tears streaming out of their eyes.

“Oi!” Crowley cried. “Don’t laugh! I’ve been at this for two hours! I’ve been binging _Bake-Off_ for a week in secret!”

That information did not help Aziraphale’s situation at all. They tried to speak, but cracking an eye open to see Crowley with their arms folded, pouting like a child, was enough to set off a new round of delirious giggles.

“Hmph. Unbelievable,” they muttered, but Aziraphale could hear a hint of a grin in it. “I set about to make my _lovely_ partner some holiday treats – miracle-free, might I add! I _toil_ away in here, baking these _monstrosities_ out of the _goodness_ of my _heart_ – which I don’t have any, obviously, ‘m a demon – and what does my angel do? _Laugh_ at me. Laugh!” They dramatically tossed their arms in the air, trying to look suitably grumpy, but Aziraphale has always known Crowley was powerless when they smiled at them like they were now.

“You utter sweetheart,” Aziraphale said, shaking their head as they swallowed their chuckles. “You are truly the most amazing thing to exist.”

Oh, what a fetching shade of vermillion. “’M not. Shut it.” They grimaced as they looked around at the kitchen, leaning against a counter with hunched defeat, arms crossed again. “Couldn’t even make any of it properly.”

Aziraphale finally came closer, kissing their flour-speckled cheek, careful not to get any of the mess on their own clothing. “Thank you, love. This is so very kind of you, and I appreciate it very much. That said, I suspect baking is not your thing.”

Crowley grumbled but didn’t deny it. “Just wanted to surprise you.”

“How about we make some treats _together_ instead, yes?”

Crowley closed their eyes, looking pained. “This is so cliché. Gah, fine. Lemme clean up, first.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Clean what, this perfectly serviceable kitchen?”

Crowley opened their eyes to see the spotless counters, twinkling shimmer of the tossed bowl on the island, and a new jar of upright molasses. “Cheater,” they accused fondly.

“Come along, then.” Aziraphale took up one of Crowley’s hands and tugged gently. “We have leftover Thai getting cold” – not that it would have truly dared to do so – “in the other room. Oh, and you need to change your clothes.”

Crowley halted and looked down. “Wha – you clean the whole kitchen and leave me a _disaster?_ ”

“It’s a good look on you, so I left it. Though the flour would rub off on the sofa, so it seems prudent to clean up before we sit.”

“You – me, covered in flour? A good look? I look like I got the world’s worst dandruff.”

Aziraphale snapped, leaving the demon’s attire meticulously black once more. They wondered how long it would take Crowley to notice the red-and-white striped socks. “There. But you’ll always know the miracle is there, underneath, you know.”

Crowley rolled their eyes and took the lead, dragging them to the other room. “Do you exist to torment me?”

“No, not solely. Also to love you most desperately.”

“Sap.”

After they ate (taking turns sharing bites like newlyweds, because they were entitled to such after thousands of years of repression), they returned to the kitchen. Aziraphale rolled up their sleeves and tied on a checkered blue and white apron around their plush waist.

“So, uh, what exactly are we doing?” Crowley asked, eying the kitchen suspiciously, like it had somehow wronged them, and not the other way around.

“Gingerbread men, chocolate fudge, and a vanilla Bundt, yes?” Aziraphale said. “That’s what you were making. Seems a good place to pick back up.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley snapped a black apron into existence. “Just tell me what to do. Your bossiness will finally be useful, angel.”

“I’m not bossy, I just know how I want things done, is all.”

“Yeah, yeah. Boss away, then. I’m all yours.”

They knew their demon was joking, but it still made something deep in Aziraphale pang happily to hear. “You are, aren’t you?” they said wonderingly.

“Have been for millennia, angel. Keep up.”

They set about with their baking, starting with the gingerbread, spices tripled from the angel’s ancient recipe book and cut into the shapes of little persons. Aziraphale very carefully gave Crowley little to do, and nothing near the flour or powdered sugar, insisting instead that they ought to do the decorating while Aziraphale started the cake. Crowley’s eyes lit up at the suggestion (they were so creative and crafty that it only made sense. Aziraphale did the methodical thing, Crowley did the haphazard one. They balanced each other, even in this).

The biscuits cooled in an instant and Crowley set about with piping bags of frosting and candies miraculously transported from the local sweets shoppe (with money manifested directly in the register).

“Hey, look,” Crowley said after a few minutes of the angel’s quiet humming, prompting Aziraphale to do just that. Crowley had bitten an arm off one of the biscuit men and piped a pile of red frosting from the shoulder. The face had wide eyes and a mouth open, like it was screaming in terror. “Cute, right?”

“Crowley! That is so inappropriate!” Aziraphale exclaimed, horrified. “Good Heavens, you’ve killed the poor thing!”

Crowley grinned toothily, sharp canines on display, before shoving the entire biscuit in their mouth. “Wh’re ‘ou ‘alk’in’ ‘bou’?” they asked, mouth full and crumbs spitting from their lips.

“Don’t talk with your – oh, you’re disgusting.”

“’M ‘ot ‘isgu’ting,” they protested gleefully, but Aziraphale was already turning away to continue weighing the flour, hiding a smile.

Some number of hours later, they were done, their array of treats set out on the table. Crowley’s gingerbread men were intricately designed in a mix of classic-looking biscuits, funky pop culture caricatures, and…

“Is it…us?” Aziraphale ventured, looking at the two biscuits placed just _so,_ to make it look like they were holding hands. One in black with red hair, the other in beige and blue, with white hair.

“Yup,” Crowley said proudly. “See? Even got the tartan on your bowtie.”

“That’s impressive work, my dear! I dare say we look positively scrumptious.”

“I always do; that’s not news.”

Aziraphale rolled their eyes but didn’t disagree. Smiling softly, they took up Crowley’s hand in theirs – to match the gingerbread men, you understand.

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“You…you know I love you and such, yeah?” they asked, eyes glued to their gingerbread counterpart.

“Of course, I do. I’ve known that for millennia. Sometimes, it was all I could be sure of.”

Crowley smiled. “Good.”

“And you know I love you.”

“Yup. You only remind me multiple times a day.”

“I have thousands of years to make up for, my love.” Crowley had been showing their love for so long, and still continued to show it. It was their way of doing things. Aziraphale used words, and those had been forbidden so long. They knew Crowley understood that, and why they needed to say it.

“I’m going to eat you, now,” Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts and scooping up the gingerbread Aziraphale and toasting the air. Aziraphale laughed and picked up the gingerbread Crowley to clink their treats together.

Ridiculous. It was all so ridiculous. Being in love. Saying, showing, being. It was all Aziraphale ever wanted.

The buscuits were perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m decent at baking, but I did once spill an entire bottle of vanilla extract all over our pantry. I’m also not trusted with frosting. I make killer gingerbread men, though.  
> Speaking of, the internet refuses to agree upon whether Brits call gingerbread men “gingerbread cookies” or “gingerbread biscuits” (when not just saying “men,” of course). Seems like biscuits are hard and crisp (like for dunking in tea?). Since these are supposed to be of the soft and chewy variety, I stuck with cookie.  
> EDIT: Thank you HolRose for the correction! All "cookies" have been replaced with "biscuits"!  
> (Unrelated: if Aziraphale ran a recipe blog, they would absolutely be one of those blogs that tells long, elaborate, unrelated stories before you get to the dang recipe. And I would read them. Can someone good at cooking write this fic? K thanks)


	4. utterly smitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Socks, bickering, mead, stars, and love. Also, holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite miss holiday craft fairs this year, so I shall be living vicariously through the Ineffable Duo today. I am 100% Aziraphale in this chapter. Bear with me as I gush about how much I love them. Don’t know if they’re like this in Britain, but I also don’t care, because I just really needed this! Allow me my indulgences. They’ll be back one day.

“Oh, dearest, look! They have little snowmen made of socks! Oh, isn’t that _darling?”_

“Bet they smell like feet.”

“They’ve got little stocking caps, and ribbon scarves, and wooden buttons. Oh, we have to buy some.”

“Angel, you can’t buy every single cute thing you see.”

Aziraphale pouted at their partner, casting a meaningful glance over the three (reusable) bags stuffed full of every single cute thing Aziraphale had run up to and Crowley had bought for them with a groan, smirk, or wink. They’d been at this holiday craft bazaar for upwards of two hours now, it being their third of the day, and the collection of homemade goods only grew. They had Christmas presents to supplement whatever they hadn’t gotten yet, in addition to many things for the home.

Crowley complained the whole time, as expected, but they also carried two of the bags.

“Nonsense, dear,” Aziraphale chided. “Don’t you think that bare spot on the nonfiction bookcase could use a bit of holiday cheer?”

“Which nonfiction bookcase?”

“The one with my memoirs.”

“Oh, yeah. No. You’ve already put decorations on every shelf of that one.”

“Well…a couple of sock snowmen couldn’t hurt…”

Crowley sighed grandly. “If you want stinky socks full of seeds on your shelves, then by all means.”

Aziraphale noticed the owner of the booth was nearby, eying them with annoyance. Likely because they were standing in the middle of the small loop through her stall and talking very loudly over the chatter of shoppers and the local group of teenagers belting seasonal tunes over a cheap microphone. The angel smiled at her brightly and said, “We’ll take two, my dear.”

“I promise I make them with unused socks,” she replied dryly, accepting the cash Aziraphale handed her and placing it in her little tin box under her stool. The bell on her elf cap jingled merrily.

“Be more interesting if you didn’t,” Crowley commented.

“They’re perfectly lovely,” Aziraphale said Very Firmly. “Thank you very much.”

The woman seemed placated. “Thank you. Happy Christmas.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and pulled them along quickly, ignoring their grumble of, “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘happy holidays’?”

“Crowley, stop being such a boor.”

“I’m right, though.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You aren’t incorrect, my dear, but your attitude needs work. You’re better than this.”

“’M a demon and my arms are tired and I’m sick of all the false cheer of these little shopkeepers,” Crowley said. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

Aziraphale sighed again. It wasn’t something they could explain properly. To them, there was nothing false about it. In a little warehouse-like building in a little country village (or in a school gym, or a senior center, or someone’s barn), dozens of local businesspersons, artisans, and hobbyists gathered together to sell their homemade goods. They set up these little booths with such careful attention to detail, to show everything they’ve crafted with love. Signs with sweet phrases, peppermint soaps, paper wreaths, doll clothes, knit potholders and aprons and scarves, pincushions, birdhouses, painted pinecones, windchimes, hand-painted saw blades, duck plushies, glazed bowls, and biscuits galore. When the sellers chatted with Aziraphale, and wished them a happy holiday or anything else, it was done with a genuine care. Aziraphale loved it all.

“I know it’s not your thing,” Aziraphale said instead. “So, I am very grateful that you’ve come with me. I wanted terribly to share this with you.”

Crowley softened a bit. “It’s really not. Too crowded and kitschy. But I can see you shining with how much you love it.”

“I really do.” Aziraphale smiled wider as the tune changed, and the teen belting her dear heart out hit just the right high note – much to the relief of all the shoppers. _All I want for Christmas is you!_ she sang out to a jaunty modern tune. She was quite good, really. Whoever was on guitar could use some work, but Aziraphale was endeared by it all, anyway.

“Why don’t you go to that stand with the little sandwiches and shortbread, find us a seat, and I’ll join you in a moment?” Aziraphale suggested, gesturing to the small eating area in the corner where good smells were wafting.

“Works for me. Then can we go home?”

“Yes, dear, I promise.”

“And what are you doing?”

“I wanted to tip the singer. I saw that guitar case was open earlier for them.”

“Could just…” Crowley mimed a snap.

Aziraphale huffed. “I’ll only be a moment. Toodles!” They kissed their demon on the cheek and bustled off, quite pleased with themself.

Because here was the thing.

Aziraphale was _lying._

But it was for a good cause! Truly! They allowed themself this little moment of amorality for the sake of it. Besides, they _were_ going to tip the local musicians, but that wasn’t why they needed to get back over there without Crowley around to see.

When they’d gone through that aisle of booths early on, there had been one selling tiny models of cars. It was one of the only things Crowley had stopped to look at, but they ultimately hadn’t bought anything.

With a secretive grin, Aziraphale bought one for Crowley, as a gift for Christmas. A model that matched the Bentley exactly, of course. It never crossed Aziraphale’s mind that all the other car models were modern obscenities and perhaps they wouldn’t have been selling one of a 1926 Bentley (which might be why Crowley hadn’t bought one), but the confused shopkeeper kept their mouth shut. These things happen, probably.

The automobile figure in its little box found itself stuffed snugly and safely in a protective plastic at the bottom of the flour bag, one place Aziraphale knew Crowley would never venture near again.

They returned to Crowley, doing their utmost to tamper down the smile that threatened them when they thought of their successful little heist. Crowley was quite pleased themself, having found a booth selling spiced mead, which they decided to open that evening at home.

As Aziraphale ate and let Crowley chatter (complain) about this and that, they regarded their counterpart with warmth. Crowley had been a good sport about the trips today, and, as usual, their grumbles were surface level. No, the dear demon would probably never enjoy these as much as Aziraphale did, but Crowley had had so much fun interacting with the kids at the school, buying their homemade treats and crafts with a wink. Every child practically glowed after Crowley came by their booth, but not nearly so much as Crowley themself did.

Aziraphale’s heart swelled, thinking of the little girl Crowley had crouched down to speak to. Complimented the wonky felt ornaments she’d made, with uneven stitching and hot glue strings. Dug deep and told her not to worry, because her mother was going to be back from service just in time for Christmas Eve, they were sure of it. Bought three of her ornaments, and Aziraphale didn’t doubt they would truly end up on the tree in their cottage in a place of honor.

Not Crowley’s favorite activity, perhaps. But they came for Aziraphale and stayed because their heart was too big for their chest.

“What’s that look?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to find themself gazing at their best friend, utterly smitten. “You’re wonderful, you know.”

Crowley blushed and frowned but seemed to make an effort not to simply snap back. They’d been trying lately to curb some old habits. “Not so bad yourself, angel,” they said instead of the usual denial, and Aziraphale felt even warmer.

“Thank you, dearest.”

When they were finished, the two scooped up the bags, which joined the others in the boot of the Bentley, and made the drive home. Crowley drove fast and reckless over the icy streets and Aziraphale was sure they nearly discorporated twice from the heart attacks alone.

The nights of winter stretched languidly across the 4 PM hour, the world hushed and dark by the time they got home. Crowley parked the Bentley in the garage – to keep it out of bad weather – and helped haul all the goodies they picked up into the sitting room. Aziraphale put on a record of classic Christmas music they’d found, and set about going back through everything, sorting gifts from personal items, placing new decorations and storing whatever needed to be put away, all with a happy smile on their face. This bit afterward of sorting the spoils and giving them new homes was nearly as fun as collecting them to begin with.

They didn’t notice Crowley had slipped out until it was well past dinner time, and Aziraphale looked about to realize they’d gotten terribly distracted. For a moment, a panic swelled in them – _where is Crowley? Are they okay? Are they upset that I got distracted?_

They did their best to quell those old worries. But the best remedy was Crowley themself, so Aziraphale scurried through the cottage to find them. They weren’t in any of the rooms, so they stepped out onto the back patio to find their serpent sitting on the middle step, leaning back on their elbows, staring at the sky.

Aziraphale came closer, slightly hesitant. Unsure if they were welcome, or interrupting. Crowley didn’t look away, but they did adjust their posture to indicate the space beside them, so Aziraphale sat there, a few inches between them.

They opened their mouth to speak, but something about Crowley’s expression stopped them. Cast in shadows, outlined in yellow from the kitchen bulb. Fragments of Frank Sinatra floated from within the cottage. The moment felt utterly sacred, and to break it with words would’ve been wrong. So, Aziraphale followed their gaze and looked heavenward.

It was an explosion of stars above. The Milky Way strained and stretched in rivulets of glitter across an expanse of navy blue, splotches of purple and the darkest green belied by specks of white and yellow and gold. A full moon, or a crescent moon, would’ve been poetic and apt, but instead, it was a half-moon. Half in light, half in dark. Poetic enough. A few small, stray clouds blotted the lights, but it was largely clear of disruption.

They breathed. The air was cold, a stinging chill to the cheeks. Crowley shivered and, after a moment, shifted to press their side to Aziraphale’s. The angel found the demon’s hand and held it gently. Eternity was such a terribly long time, but it never felt longer than when they reminded themselves that Earth, the Earth they loved and sacrificed for, was really so small in the great span of the universe. They were just two…people, perhaps wasn’t the word. Or maybe it was. They were two, together, in this gigantic world. Aziraphale was sure they felt the eyes of God, somewhere out there, everywhere. She knew the angel’s heart, and how they loved Her creations.

Especially the one to their left.

“You’re freezing, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, as quiet as they could so they mightn’t break the spell, their breath a puff of swirling white smoke in the cold.

Crowley blinked a few times and looked to them, slightly dazed, like they hadn’t even been aware of their body for some time. “Wassat?”

“I said you’re freezing. We should head inside, get you a warm drink before you catch your death.”

“I can’t-“

“Figure of speech, dear.”

Crowley huffed, then stretched languorously, popping each joint before swaying to their feet and helping Aziraphale rise.

Aziraphale smiled at them. “Thank you for coming with me, today.”

Crowley shrugged, eyes drifting to the stars once more. “It wasn’t so bad. I like doing these things with you, angel.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Things we couldn’t have done before.”

They could not have gone shopping together, before. They could not have argued over welcome mats and refrigerator magnets and angel statues, before. They could not have come home, to the place they called each other _mine,_ before. They could not have held hands under starlight, utterly fearless, before.

“I know something I’d like to do with you that we _did_ do, before,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh?”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale pursed their lips and tugged on Crowley’s hand, leading them to the door. “What was your phrase, back then? Alcohol. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol, my dear.”

Crowley laughed and followed them happily, embraced by the warmth of the indoors. Aziraphale felt sure that no present they snuck away with could ever be enough to adequately thank their demon for the gift that was their laughter, and their love.

And oh, how they two loved.

The door closed behind them, and the spiced mead was poured to the tune of _Auld Lang Syne,_ because of course, it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a picture of a sock snowman I made a handful of years ago! It’s filled with flax seed, though I believe most use rice (I just used what I had on hand). [Here’s a short video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3t8_OxerG0) showing how to make your own! And I really do recommend unused socks, my friends.  
> 


	5. Warm. Soft. Cozy. Loved.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve and Christmas Day arrive at the South Downs cottage. Crowley gets caught in the cold, domestic fuzziness occurs, and the author manages to be even more self-indulgent than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided to end this story on five chapters instead of six, because the writing simply led me to a point that felt like an ending, even if it means skipping New Year’s (plus it just makes sense with the primary plot thread being about Christmas for it to end here). To make up for it, the chapter is twice as long as usual.  
> Warning: the following is so stuffed with fluff it may rot your teeth. Read responsibly.

“I reckon we ought to go to a service,” Aziraphale commented idly on the 23rd. “Christmas Eve is traditional for such an outing. I understand some places hand out candles, and they sing tunes together. It seems rather pleasant.”

Crowley gave them a pointed look from where they were sprawled in Aziraphale’s lap on the sofa, back propped on the armrest. “Ah, yes. A Christmas Eve service. To hear some inaccurate rubbish about mangers to celebrate the birth of a guy who was born in spring.”

“Well, er-“

“And you want me, a demon, to go with you. Into a church. And sing hymns to the _Almighty Above.”_

Aziraphale made a dismayed expression and ran an apologetic hand across Crowley’s back. “Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t think. I got so caught up in – in trying to celebrate it properly…”

Crowley chuckled. “Angel, I’m sticking with a secular Christmas, but if you want to go to a candlelit sermon and sing in a building dedicated to institutionalized religion, be my guest. I know you like that kind of thing.”

Aziraphale ignored the jab with practice. “But I don’t want to leave you alone! We’re trying to celebrate it _together,_ after all.”

Crowley’s face softened. “We still are, angel. But we’re still…different, ya know? We have our things we like. Being together doesn’t – it doesn’t mean we’re restricted. Shouldn’t change who we are. Seriously. I don’t mind.”

“My love…”

“I’m still going to tease you for it, though.”

Aziraphale sighed, but they were grinning fondly. “I would expect no less.”

And so, the next day in the early evening, Aziraphale went into the village, refusing Crowley’s offer to drive. In the twilight, Christmas lights and streetlamps illuminated the way cheerily. Like any proper small town, there were at least fifty churches to pick from in the area. There were lots of unused historical sites built post-Norman-conquest, all with suitably odd names (Crowley was a fan of Cocking Church for obvious reasons). Crowley did some online searching to find one that was liberal enough to not bat an eye at neutral pronouns, but old-fashioned and Catholic-y enough to use candles.

Home alone, Crowley wandered the house a little aimlessly. They expected something like loneliness to settle in, like it always had before when they had to be apart. How many days and afternoons had been spent pacing in their barren flat, or simply sleeping away the weeks? They didn’t spend much time in the flat, preferring to run around town causing mischief and mayhem, but sometimes they needed a place to come back to. And that place had always been the most loveless locale in London.

This time, they were alone again, but they were _home_ alone, and that made all the difference.

They ran their fingers across the spines of weary books, down the shafts of quivering leaves, the blending of their lives. They kept up the regime with the plants somewhat, but the fact was that it was impossible to keep any of them in line when they could see how soft Crowley had become lately. Scattered across the house, they bore witness to all the blushing and flustered nonsense that was Crowley’s brain.

And the mistletoe was a _gossip._

They decided they were going to look into a greenhouse addition come spring. It would be nice to have a space just for the plants, and to house some larger ones. Their biggest plants hadn’t made the move to the South Downs, so Crowley could do with some replacements. Maybe they’d even expand to outdoor plants. They were also entertaining a fantasy of secretly growing some flowers for Aziraphale, maybe roses…but no one needed to know about that.

Crowley checked up on all the plants, watering those that needed it more regularly and adjusting them for the waning winter sunlight. Then, with a huff, they decided that, rather than wait around at home, they’d go for a brief jaunt down to the beach.

It was cold as sin (Crowley would know), even with multiple layers, two long scarves, a hat, and thick gloves. Still, they felt a restless itchiness in their bones, so they braved the cold night and stalked (very carefully, as there was a lot of ice) down the pavement.

The beach was only fifteen minutes or so from the stupidly cute cottage, but even that short time was enough for the chill to settle deep in Crowley’s bones. It felt good to move about and stretch their legs, but surrounded largely by darkness and all by themself, Crowley started to feel that they hadn’t thought this through. They weren’t scared of the dark, but it did remind them of places they didn’t like to think about.

They brushed that thought away and focused on the sounds. The lapping of the ocean past the sands, muffled in tone and sight. A sigh of wind, their own shuffling footsteps. Bits of silver were scattered across the shifting surface of the sea, from moonlight and stars. Largely, the world was an endless black expanse, and Crowley shivered.

It was eerie and beautiful. They stood and stared, humming something under their breath, for multiple minutes.

They let a long exhale into the cold air and realized they couldn’t feel their toes.

Right. Probably time to head home, then.

Crowley began rigidly walking back, but it was much more slow-going than it had been coming. The demon had always been particularly susceptible to cold. Everyone thought demons ran hot, what with all the Hellfire and boiling sulfur, but there was a reason they needed all those heat sources. The freezing temperatures were digging into Crowley’s skin, leaving something exhausted and numb as their steps slowed.

They tried to bury their gloved hands deeper into their pockets, but there wasn’t much strength to their arms.

Bless it, it wasn’t even that cold out! This was pathetic, really and truly. Crowley knew better than this, anyway – they knew their weaknesses, knew cold did this to them, and they’d gone out anyway. And now their vision was going splotchy. Brilliant. Peachy.

They sneezed when something tickled their nose. They looked up.

Oh. It wasn’t their eyes, it was snowing. Christmas Eve snow. Typical.

They smiled a little ruefully as the tiny flakes prickled the dark tones of their clothing, beginning to gather on the edges of the path and along barren tree branches. It was beautiful, and thicker by the minute.

Crowley picked up speed. They were nearly home by this point, but this was going to be a proper storm, soon, and they did not want to be caught out in it when it got to that point.

“Crowley? _Crowley!”_

The cry caused Crowley to jolt, which was probably a good sign that they weren’t too sluggish, yet. Aziraphale came bustling toward them from down the path, still in all their layers, looking equally annoyed as concerned. The cottage was within eyesight now.

“Crowley, what in the _world_ are you doing? Where were you?” They put their fists on their hips. “I came home to find the place completely empty, no sign of you! Do you have _any_ idea-“

They paused, eyes widening as they took in the fact that Crowley’s entire body was shaking. Crowley watched snowflakes land on their angel’s long eyelashes. “Y’re so pretty when you’re mad, angel,” Crowley commented with an attempt at a smirk, but it felt sloppy.

Aziraphale huffed, eyebrows creasing. “Let’s go inside, you ridiculous serpent,” they murmured, linking their arms.

With Aziraphale’s help, the two made their way indoors. Crowley was stiff, but not hypothermic. Aziraphale insisted on making a fuss over them, scolding all the while, and Crowley simply let it happen. Aziraphale needed to fuss and nag or they’d probably keel over. And maybe Crowley liked being fussed over, alright? Don’t make it a thing.

“Oh, I can’t _believe_ you’d go out into this _mess,”_ Aziraphale muttered, stripping Crowley of their scarves and hat and jacket. “It’s cold, late at night, ice all over the streets, and you, what? Went for a walk?”

Crowley knew their input wasn’t actually necessary, but they replied, “Just thought I’d go see the beach. Not a big deal.”

“Not a big-“ Aziraphale placed their hands on Crowley’s cheeks firmly, squishing them a bit. Crowley stared, wide-eyed, at Aziraphale’s face. “You are a fool,” they said, but it was achingly gentle. “We both know cold isn’t good for you.”

Remembering what Aziraphale had said about finding the house empty, and knowing that ache too keenly, Crowley nodded and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Just don’t do that again.”

Half an hour later, the two were curled up together on the sofa, sipping hot drinks, and covered in significantly more blankets than Crowley was aware they owned. They hadn’t even had to pout that hard to convince Aziraphale that body heat was the fastest way to heat up a poor cold sod, and oh, angel, it’s so cold, the demon might not last much longer like this, if only _someone_ would come cuddle them and make them feel better-?

So, they were both wrapped up in the blankets, and Crowley pressed themself bodily against the glowing heat of the angel, who pursed their lips as though in annoyance as they pulled the demon closer.

The compromise was that Aziraphale was making them watch a bunch of traditional Christmas cartoons (“They’re for kids!” “It’s traditional, my dear.” “Traditional? This one is from the 80s; that’s practically new in your book.” “It is actually _based_ on a book, you know, by Raymond Briggs…”).

They both knew Crowley would have agreed to watch them, anyway, and besides, Crowley had been a fan of animation since it’s inception in the 20s and 30s. _The Snowman_ wasn’t too terrible, and Aziraphale reminisced about their time at gentlemen’s clubs during the whole snowman-cult-dancing scene. Crowley was a big fan of the Grinch and idly recalled memories of briefly living in a cave sometime in the B.C.E. It’d been by a hot spring, though. And they didn’t do any sewing. This morphed into simply watching Christmas movies. Aziraphale was notoriously behind the times on all accounts, but their time with Warlock had informed them of the kid’s classics. A little googling on Crowley’s part helped fill the gaps.

Around midnight, Crowley was just on the verge of falling asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The credits for something were playing, Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention. They were warm, and Aziraphale had an arm wrapped firmly around their back, and Crowley’s face was mushed against the angel’s neck, and holy Somewhere, Crowley wanted to never bloody move ever again.

In fact, they weren’t. Ever. This was all they were doing forever and ever. _Soft._

“Dearest?” Aziraphale murmured, running their free hand through Crowley’s hair, likely to see the demon’s face better.

Crowley grumbled a few consonants.

“I’m sorry,” they said. “I shouldn’t have scolded you for getting caught in the cold.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley replied, burying their nose against Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Well, the truth is…I may have possibly started the snowstorm,” they whispered hastily.

Crowley froze, then sighed and pulled back to give Aziraphale an incredulous look. “Why am I not surprised.” It wasn’t a question because really, Crowley should’ve known.

“Well, I was walking home,” Aziraphale replied, “and it was so lovely and cheery, I was filled with such warmth from the service – it was quite nice, you know. The congregation all held candles and sang together, it was delightful and _such_ a sense of _community_ , and they had an adorable little Nativity play with the kids, and-“

“Angel.”

“A-And afterward, I just thought, ‘oh, wouldn’t it be so lovely if our first Christmas together in our cottage, we woke up to a White Christmas?’ So I, er, encouraged a bit of moisture in this direction, just a nudge, really…”

Crowley looked pointedly out the window. The glow of the Christmas lights across the gutters was enough to illuminate the intense flurry. They turned back with a perched eyebrow.

“No one will get hurt,” Aziraphale continued nervously, as though Crowley had ever doubted. “I made sure of that. No one is caught in this storm, or anything, no one will lose power. It’s perfectly safe, just a little, er, holiday surprise…”

Crowley snorted and couldn’t hold back their smile anymore. “You adorable idiot.”

Aziraphale blushed. “You’re not upset?”

“’Course not.”

They finally smiled back. “It’s probably your fault, anyway, for going out for a walk when you’re a cold-blooded snake.”

“You _know_ that’s not how that works, angel. Being cold-blooded would have _so many_ other side effects-“

Aziraphale interrupted them with a chaste peck to the lips, and Crowley hid their face against Aziraphale’s shoulder again. _Warm. Soft. Cozy. Loved._

“Should we leave out some brandy for Santa?” Crowley asked after a few minutes of Aziraphale carding their fingers through Crowley’s hair, causing them to practically purr with contentment.

“I thought it was Father Christmas on this part of the globe.”

Crowley grunted. “You know how Americans are with their culture.”

Aziraphale gave a thoughtful hum. “But if it’s Santa, wouldn’t he be drinking and driving on his sleigh? Seems irresponsible.”

“Guess we could drink the brandy for him.”

“Splendid thought, my dear.”

***

The next morning was a White Christmas, obviously, not that Bing Crosby had anything to say about it. Aziraphale didn’t sleep, but they did like to read in bed, so when Crowley awoke, it was to the sight of their angel, lost in a book, so deep in their story that they didn’t notice the sun had risen and they didn’t need their lamp on anymore.

Crowley gazed at them for a long moment, just savoring. Round cheeks, double chin, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted, the soldier’s posture finally forgotten as they leaned toward their book, as though that may help them read it faster. Hair in immaculate curls, plump hands turning the page with reverence, yet haste. Crowley was loathe to interrupt them, and so didn’t until Aziraphale glanced over of their own accord.

“Oh, you’re awake!” they exclaimed, a huge smile overtaking their face as they said it, as though that simple fact – that Crowley was awake – was the greatest news they’d ever heard. “Did you sleep well?”

Crowley grunted an affirmative and forced themself into a sitting position to look out the window, curtains drawn (not that either of them had opened the curtains, but both expected curtains to be drawn in the morning, even if they had closed them at night, and so they were).

The outdoors was an endless expanse of white, enough snow to hide any hint of grass blade or path, and certainly enough to cave in all these rooves that were never meant to withstand this sort of weight. Naturally, no damage would occur with such literally ethereal snow, glinting even under the continued grey cover of clouds. Dustings weighted the branches both barren and evergreen, threatening to drip, but unlikely to melt for another day or two.

“S’ cold,” Crowley complained, leaning heavily against their angel drowsily.

“A happy Christmas to you, too, my dear,” Aziraphale replied serenely. “Let me finish this chapter, then let’s go begin the festivities, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah. Happy Christmas.”

Three chapters later, the two made their way down the hall to the sitting room, where the tree lived. Crowley, wrapped up in a black silk housecoat that offered little heat, immediately plopped on the sofa and grabbed two blankets, while Aziraphale went to acquire warm drinks, humming a holiday tune all the while. Crowley couldn’t even find it in them to tease about the fully tartan housecoat.

Per tradition, they opened gifts first, mugs of steaming tea at the ready as they did so. Crowley insisted Aziraphale go first, and, predictably, the angel couldn’t resist the tug of curiosity that had been plaguing them ever since Crowley first put those boxes under the tree.

First were the multiple old books Crowley pretended they “stumbled across,” even though both of them knew that was what the demon’s “business trip” to Germany in late November was for. There was also a wooden spoon with a wood burned scene of angel wings wrapped around an apple. Down the handle was an inscription: _our side._

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said, voice all choked up.

Crowley attempted to grumble off the thanks, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have it and pulled them into a hug. Crowley took this as permission to snuggle close to them for the remainder of the gift-opening.

“I’ll hang it above the sink,” Aziraphale decided with a nod. “Over the window.”

“You’re not gonna use it?”

Aziraphale looked scandalized. “Of _course_ , not! This sort of thing is _decorative!”_

“Oh.” Fair enough. Crowley handed Aziraphale the last box in lieu of a reply – a flat oblong thing. “This one’s not too great,” Crowley admitted.

After pulling the bow of twine off in a fluid motion, Aziraphale reverently lifted four hand-painted bookmarks from within – all of starry skies in different seasons, settings, and silhouettes. Little tassels dangled off the tops.

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment.

Crowley was trying very hard not to be nervous. “Been a long time since I did any painting, at least since I apprenticed under Leo, so they’re fairly rubbish-“

“They’re beautiful,” Aziraphale interrupted, voice hushed, stroking a feather-light finger over the textured brushstrokes of a moon. “I will cherish them, always.”

“Don’t forget to _use_ them, too,” Crowley teased, to hide the fact that they were didn’t know how to handle the look on Aziraphale’s face right then.

When they both felt recovered, Aziraphale presented Crowley with the remaining boxes. The pair of knit, wine-colored socks matched the scarf they already wore everywhere they went, and Crowley pretended to have not seen Aziraphale knitting them clandestinely around the house (as established, spy-stuff wasn’t the angel’s forte).

“Where did you get this?” Crowley asked in awe as they studied the tiny Bentley figure.

Aziraphale wiggled happily and recounted their little escapade at the holiday market, and Crowley didn’t say that the seller hadn’t stocked anything pre-60s. They hoped the Bentley wouldn’t be jealous, old girl. There was only one car for Crowley’s heart. They’d be sure to keep it in the house.

The last box was the biggest, and Crowley had no idea what to make of it as they tore away the paper, and even less when they opened it to find a black case inside…distinctly instrument shaped.

“Is this…?” Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale, who looked very pleased with themself, and Crowley carefully opened the case to reveal a lute. A flat, wooden thing shaped like an almond, with a thick neck, white strings pulled from the bent-back pegbox to below an intricate rose-cut hole in the center.

“I know you’ve loved to play these for ages – the oud in the Sasanian Empire to the torban in Ukraine…I thought maybe you’d enjoy playing it again,” Aziraphale explained, more and more sheepish as they spoke. “I didn’t mean to presume, and you obviously don’t have to play it, I simply thought it’d be-“

Crowley cut them off as they ran a careful finger over the strings, some out-of-tune notes sounding from the instrument. They smiled. “Someone, it’s been ages,” they said. “Let’s see what I remember.”

Aziraphale gave a sigh of relief as Crowley began happily tuning the pairs of strings in D minor, muscle memory kicking in from their last jaunt with the lute family in the 18th century. They attempted a few melodies, missing every other note and determining to look up some sheet music and instructional videos later on. Aziraphale clapped at Crowley’s lackluster attempt, and the demon gave them a cheeky grin.

They had always loved music – Crowley had known many a bard over the ages, Shakespeare naturally being the famous one. However, playing had dropped off over the past few centuries as other responsibilities came into focus. They’d completely forgotten, but now that they had the weight of the thing in their hands, it was like no time had passed at all.

(Aziraphale also gifted them a case of red, and they both pretended it wasn’t a gift to be shared.)

They had a lazy morning spent with music, and Aziraphale finished their book, the two wearing matching, soft smiles.

Come noon, Aziraphale wanted to have a traditional Christmas feast (“It’s traditio-“ “Yes, I get it.”), but it was a big undertaking when one out of two couldn’t cook, and they weren’t exactly having anyone over. They had considered making a thing of it, inviting neighbors and friends, but decided not to. In previous years, when they celebrated Christmas, it was always done in groups of humans. It was pleasant in its own way. But they’d never celebrated Christmas with just the two of them, let alone in the home they’d made theirs.

Christmas was supposed to be about family, and this year, the only family they needed was one another (Crowley felt like vomiting, it was so soppy).

So, after poring over vintage Christmas cookbooks, some cooking shows, and having discussions with the knitting club, Aziraphale prioritized what they’d make. Luckily, the club already had a system of sharing portions of goods with one another each holiday season, so they ended up with two mince pies, cranberry and bread sauce, and Mildred’s famous plum pudding.

“This isn’t _anything_ like frumenty,” Aziraphale complained when they tasted it (had to make certain it was good, after all, would be a shame to wait until the day of and find it lacking, wouldn’t it? The responsible thing to do).

The meal itself consisted of a roast bird, stuffing, some sausages, Brussel sprouts, and a variety of other things Crowley didn’t pay close attention to. Crowley tried everything, of course, but they weren’t there for the food. They were there for the ridiculous sounds Aziraphale made as they tucked in…and the pre-16th century posset – a hot drink of milk, ale, wine, and some spices. Aziraphale made their own Christmas cake, in the Italian style called a _panettone,_ because they heard it was supposed to be had with a cup of hot chocolate.

“I decided against the boar head,” Aziraphale said conversationally between bites. “It seemed extravagant for only two.”

Crowley rolled their eyes. “Don’t think anyone’s done a boar head for Christmas since Saxon times. Pretty sure that was Advent, anyway.”

“No, no, Advent was before Christmas, the twelve days when everyone stopped work and went thomasing.”

“The servants sure didn’t stop working,” Crowley challenged. “All those royal feasts and such nonsense? Sure, farmers, maybe, but stopping work meant dying for most.”

“How very jolly of you to mention, my dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mid-afternoon was the Queen’s speech, which Crowley was fairly sure had gone on for at least a century, and would for another century more, considering Queen Elizabeth II would seemingly never die.

“Don’t be hyperbolic,” Aziraphale chided as the queen wished her citizens well in 2025. “Her father started it shortly before the Second World War, and she took over in the 1950s. That’s only seventy or eighty years or so.”

“Do you think she’s secretly immortal?” Crowley replied, to the never-ending exasperation of their longsuffering spouse.

The sun set by five, and the day continued in much the same slow, unhurried manner. There was nothing flashy about this holiday, none of the spectacle of history or the dramatics they (rather, Crowley) were prone to. It was a day as soft as the snow, filled with enough mugs of tea to forget a couple, and enough laughter and love to feel light and contented in their snow-covered cottage.

In the evening, lit by a few lamps and battery-operated candles, Crowley laid with their head propped on Aziraphale’s lap – one of their favorite positions to be in, ever, full stop. The angel absently pet Crowley’s hair, dismantling the structure of both locks and demon. Aloud, Aziraphale read _The Gift of the Magi_ in low, soothing tones, lulling Crowley to a half-dream state of utter contentment. They read the last line of the story and closed the small book carefully.

“…It doesn’t feel real,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley had nearly fallen asleep in the lull, but they forced their eyes open now to see their angel gazing blindly at the tree across the room, soft colored lights reflecting the various ornaments.

Crowley didn’t ask what they meant. “I disagree,” they replied, sitting up. “It feels _too_ real, sometimes.” Like something that could be taken away, they didn’t add.

Aziraphale nodded absently. “Do you…think it will last?”

With a sigh, Crowley crossed their arms and propped themself against Aziraphale’s side to look at the tree, their angel and demon tree topper sitting smugly on the topmost bit. “I do.”

“How?”

“You know I’m an optimist, angel. ‘S how I got through the centuries.”

“That’s not a very helpful answer, love.”

They huffed an amused breath. “Well, it’s the only one I got. Could never enjoy those bits of time we spent together if all I was thinking about was when we’d have to be apart again. So, I learned not to. To live in the moment.”

“Ah. _Live in the moment.”_ Aziraphale smiled wistfully, drawing an arm around Crowley’s waist. Crowley let their head fall to the angel’s shoulder. “A very human thing, is it not?”

“We’ve been doing human things all day, angel. All our lives, even. Safe to say we like our human things.”

Aziraphale conceded that with a peck to the top of Crowley’s head. “I don’t know if I know how to live in the moment,” they admitted quietly. “It seems I’ve spent my entire life worrying and worrying what may happen if I forget to worry.”

“I know. And I also know I can’t _stop_ you from worrying, no matter what I say. But…I do think we get to have these things.” Crowley waved a hand at the tree. “And even if we don’t for long, we had this one.”

“So we have.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Was this everything you hoped for, angel?” Crowley asked. “All this Christmas stuff?”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’m not certain I have an objective answer to that.”

“Wha’d’you mean?”

“Well, I really enjoy most anything if you’re doing it with me, so I’m not sure I can judge it fairly.” Aziraphale chuckled as Crowley rolled their eyes and blushed. “It was certainly better than my attempt in 1973.”

“Anything would be better than your attempt in 1973.”

“In my defense-“

“There is no defense! It’s the 21st century – well, 20th then. Still, no one goes wassailing anymore. And no one is accepting drinks from strange persons who show up on their doorstep late at night. In _Soho.”_

Aziraphale pouted more and more as Crowley spoke. “Well – goodness, how was I to know it wasn’t the done thing any longer? It used to be a perfectly serviceable tradition.”

“You just liked the figgy pudding.”

“Well, I, er…”

Crowley simply laughed, and Aziraphale swatted them with the tassels of one of their new bookmarks.

In the end, it probably wouldn’t have mattered what they’d spent the day doing. If there’d been no snow or gifts or treats, or all those cliché makings of the most overwrought Christmas story, there would still remain one cliché to beat them all: it wasn’t about the day itself so much as who it was spent with. Crowley broke out into hives just thinking about how true it was. Gross.

The demon would never admit to it, not under threat of God Themself, but cliché happy endings had always been their favorite kind. They had been honest when they’d said they didn’t know if this would last, but they did know it wasn’t an ending. Whatever it was, it was certainly happy, and that was enough.

Their first Christmas in their _home._ Crowley was right when they said before that it was a year of firsts. But when they mumbled, “I love you,” to Aziraphale that evening, and the angel replied in kind, it wasn’t a first. And that was more special than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(Here’s a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euk7wyAtcrQ) I used for lute information, if that interests you. I listened to so much lute music while writing this chapter. And [here’s Queen Elizabeth’s first televised Christmas speech](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBRP-o6Q85s) in 1957!)  
> I know this Christmas is really different for a lot of people. Many of us are separated from family and friends, and the usual traditions we’ve come to know. Whether you have all the cliché trappings or not, I encourage you to take care of yourself today. Reach out to people online, talk to someone you love, and remember how temporary this is. Things are different, but they won’t always be this way, and you can still make days like this yours until then.   
> I wish all of you my very best, and a happy holidays to all of you lovely readers, and a Merry/Happy Christmas!  
> Thank you for following this fluffy holiday story. <3


End file.
